“Congratulations,” I said. “You have achieved the goal of your existence. I am glad to have been of such great use to you, but pray tell me, what will you do to fill the remaining years?”
“Perhaps I will spend them tormenting you,” he said. “And acquainting you with the depths of animosity you are capable of summoning up in otherwise placid souls.”
“I think not.” It seemed time to act. I did my best to ignore my peculiar inner sensations, though they had not diminished after Therobar dismissed the Chrescharrie. Focusing my will, I spoke certain words while making the usual accompanying gestures. Therobar stepped back, his face filling with a mingling of confusion and curiosity. The colors in the globe swirled anew, then I saw the familiar pattern of my demonic friend.
“I am beset,” I called. “Please aid me.”
The demon manifested a limb: thick, bristling with spines and tipped with a broad pincer-like claw. It reached out to Turgut Therobar as I had seen it do before to two other unfortunates. But the thaumaturge had already recovered his equilibrium. He stepped back, out of range, while shouting Gevallion’s name.
The academician also overcame his surprise. He did something to the apparatus on the bench and the globe constricted sharply, trapping my friend’s spiked appendage as if it were a noose that had tightened around the limb. I heard muffled sounds and saw the claw opening and closing in frustration, its pincers clicking as they seized only thin air.
Therobar was flipping through the book. He stopped at a page and from the way his eyes flashed I knew that it boded ill for my friend and me. “Ghoroz ebror fareshti!” he shouted. The orb shivered then contracted further, to the size of a fist, then to a pinpoint, and finally it popped out of existence altogether. The demon’s arm, severed neatly, flopped to the floor where it glowed and smoked for a moment before disappearing.
“Oh, dear,” said Turgut Therobar. “I hope you weren’t counting on that as your last resort.”
“It would be premature to say,” I said, but I heard little conviction in my own voice.
The thaumaturge rubbed his hands in a manner that implied both satisfaction with what had transpired and happy anticipation of further delights to come. “Shall I tell you what happens next?” he said.
I was casting about for a some stratagem by which I might escape or turn the tables, but nothing was coming to mind. I sought insight from the intuitive part of me that so often came to my aid, but received no sense of impending revelation. It was as if he was otherwise occupied.
Hello! I shouted down the mental corridor that led to his abode. Now would be an apt time to assist!
Meanwhile, Therobar was speaking. “You’ll go into the vats, of course. I will create several versions of you, some comical, some pathetically freakish. I will make convincing Henghis Hapthorn facsimiles, but give them unpleasant compulsions, then send them out into society. Your reputation may suffer. Others will have the opportunity to outrun neropt foraging parties. I believe I’ll also recreate you in a feminine edition.” He smiled that smile that could make children scream. “Such fun.”
The muted voice that had been rumbling in my ear now said, quite clearly, “Step aside.”
I turned my head, wondering what my transformed integrator was up to, but the creature was huddled in a far corner of the cage nervously rubbing one hand over another. “Did you speak?” I said.
“No, I did,” said the voice again, this time less quiet. “Now, get out of the way.”
I experienced a novel sensation: I was shoved from within, not roughly but with decided firmness, as that part of me that I was accustomed to think of as fixed and immutable–my own mind–now found itself sharing my inner space with another partner. At the same time, the noxious itchings and shiftings among my inner parts faded to a normal quiescence.
“Wait,” I said.
“I’ve already waited years,” Therobar said, but I had not addressed him.
“As have I,” said the voice in my head. “Now, move over before you get us both into even worse difficulty.”
I acquiesced, and the moment I yielded I felt myself deftly nudged out of the way, as if I had been pressed into the passenger’s seat of a vehicle so that someone else could assume the controls. I saw my own hand come up before my face, the fingers opening and closing, though I was not moving them. “Good,” said the voice.
I spoke to the voice’s owner as he spoke to me, silently within the confines of our shared cranium. “I know you,” I said. “You’re my indweller, the fellow at the other end of the dark passage, my intuitive colleague.”
“Hush your chatter,” was the response. “I need to concentrate.”
I subsided. Through our common eyes I saw that Turgut Therobar had produced his weapon again and was aiming it at us while Gharst opened the cage with a key the thaumaturge had given him. Across the room, Gevallion threw me a sheepish look and opened the hatch of one of his vats, releasing a wisp of malodorous vapor.
As the cage door opened, I watched my hands come together in a particular way then spread wide into a precise configuration. I heard my voice speaking words that were vaguely recognizable from one of Baxandall’s books, the opening line of a cantrip known as Gamgripp’s Irrepressible Balloon, whose title had made me laugh when I was young man browsing through a book of spells. I did not laugh now as from my hands there emanated an expanding sphere of invisible force that pushed Therobar and Gharst away from me, lifting them over the work bench then upward into the air until they were pressed against the far wall where it met the ceiling. Gevallion, seeing what was happening, tried to reach the door but was similarly caught and crushed against it.
Therobar was clearly finding it hard to breath against the pressure the spell exerted against his chest, but the symbols on his scalp had taken on a darker shade and I could see that his lips were framing syllables. I heard my voice speak again while my hands made motions that reminded me of a needle passing thread through cloth. The thaumaturge’s lips became sealed. “Faizul’s Stitch,” I said to my old partner, having recognized the spell.
“Indeed,” was the reply.
He directed our body out of the cage, faltering only a little before he mastered walking. The apparatus on the bench was unaffected by the balloon spell and he picked it up in our hands and examined it from several angles. Its components and manner of operation were not difficult to analyze.
“Shall we?” he said.
“It seems only fair.”
He activated the device, reestablishing the swirling sphere. I was relieved to see the familiar eddies of my transdimensional colleague reappear. My other part made room for me so that I could ask the demon, “Are you well?”
“Yes,” he said, “I lost only form. Essence was not affected.” He was silent for a moment and I recognized the pattern he assumed when something took his interest. “I see that the opposite is true for you.”
“Indeed,” I said, “allow me to introduce... myself, I suppose.” I stepped aside and let the two of them make each other’s acquaintance.
When the formalities were over, I voiced the obvious question: “Now what?”
I felt a sense of my other self’s emotions, as one would feel warmth from a nearby fleshly body: he gave off an emanation of determined will, tempered by irony. “We must restore balance,” he said, using my voice so that the three prisoners could hear. “Pain has been given and must therefore be received. Also fear, humiliation and, of course, death for death.”
“Indeed,” I said. “That much is obvious. But I meant ‘Now what?” for you and me.”
“Ah,” he said, this time within our shared skull. “We must reach an accommodation. At least temporarily.”
“Why temporarily?” I asked, in the same unvoiced manner, then felt the answer flower in my mind in the way my intuitive other’s contributions had always done during the long years of our partnership.
I digested his response then continued. “You are the part of me–us–that is
better suited to an age reigned over by magic. As the change intensifies, I will fade until I become to you what you have always been to me, the dweller down the back corridor.”
“Indeed,” was his response. “And from there you will provide me with analytical services that will complement and augment my leaps from instinct. It will be a happy collaboration.”
“You will make me your integrator,” I complained.
“My valued colleague,” he countered.
I said nothing, but how could he fail to sense my reluctance to give up control of my life? His response was the mental equivalent of a snort. “What makes you think you ever had control?” he said.
I was moved to argue, but then I saw the futility of being a house divided. “Stop putting things in my head,” I said.
“I don’t believe I can,” he answered. “It is, after all, as much my head as yours.”
My curiosity was piqued. “What was it like to live as you have lived, inside of me all of these years?”
There was a pause, then the answer came. “Not uncomfortable, once you learn the ropes. Don’t fret,” he added, “the full transition may not be completed for years, even decades. We might live out our mutual life just as we are now.”
“Hence the need for an accommodation,” I agreed. “Then let us wait for a quiet time and haggle it out.”
He agreed and we turned our attention to the question of what to do with Therobar, Gevallion and Gharst.
The demon was displaying silver, green and purple flashes as he said, “It would be a shame to waste the academician’s ability to create form without essence. I know of places in my continuum where such creations would command considerable value.”
I had never inquired as to what constituted economics in the demon’s frame of reference, but my intuitive half leapt to the correct interpretation. “But if you took them into your keeping and put them to work,” he said, “would that not make you a peddler of smut?”
The silver swooshes intensified, but the reply was studiedly bland in tone. “I would find some way to live with the opprobrium,” the demon said.
We released Gevallion and Gharst into demonic custody. They could not go as they were into that other universe, where any word they uttered would immediately become reified, and it was an unsettling experience to watch the demon briskly edit their forms so that they could never speak again. But I hardened myself by remembering Yzmirl and how they must have dealt with her, and in a few moments the messy business was concluded. The two were hauled, struggling and moaning, through the sphere. For good measure, the demon took their vats and apparatus as well, including the device of rods and coils from the work bench.
When he was ready to depart, my old colleague lingered in the sphere, showing more purple and green shot through with silver. “I may not return for a while,” he said, “perhaps a long while. I will have much to occupy.”
“I will miss our contests,” I said, “but in truth I am sure I will also be somewhat busy with all of this...”–I rolled my eyes– “accommodating.”
And so we said our goodbyes and he withdrew, taking the sphere after him.
“That leaves Turgut Therobar,” my inner companion said, this time aloud.
“Indeed.” I let the magnate hear my voice as well. He remained squeezed against the far wall, his feet well clear of the floor. His eyes bulged and one cheek had acquired a rapid twitch.
“Warhanny would welcome his company.”
“Somehow, the Contemplarium does not seem a sufficient sanction for the harm he has done.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
Therobar made noises behind his sealed lips. We ignored them.
* * *
Later that day, back in my work room, I contacted the Colonel Investigator. “Turgut Therobar has confessed to all the charges and specifications,” I said.
Warhanny’s face, suspended in the air over my work table, took on the slightly less lugubrious aspect that I had come to recognize as his version of intense pleasure. “I will send for him,” he said.
“Not necessary,” I said. “Convulsed by remorse for his ill deeds, he ran out onto Dimpfen Moor just as a neropt hunting pack was passing by. Nothing I could do would restrain him. They left some scraps of him if you require proof of his end.”
“I will have them collected,” said Warhanny.
“I must also file his last will and testament,” I said. “He left his entire estate to the charities he had always championed, except for generous bequests to his tenants, and an especial legacy for Bebe Allers, his final victim.”
We agreed that that was only fair and Warhanny said that he would attend to the legalities. We disconnected.
I regarded my integrator. It was still in the form of a catlike ape or perhaps an apelike cat. “And what about you?” I said. “With Baxandall’s books and the increasing strength of magic, we can probably restore you to what you were.”
It narrowed its eyes in thought. “I have come to value having preferences,” it said. “And if the world is going to change, I will become a familiar sooner or later. Better to get a head start on it. Besides, I enjoyed the fruit at Turgut Therobar’s.”
“We have none like it here,” I said. “It is prohibitively expensive.”
It blinked and looked inward for a moment. “I’ve just ordered an ample supply,” it said.
“I did not authorize the order.”
“No,” it said, “you didn’t.”
While I was considering my response, I received an unsolicited insight from my other half. It was in the form of a crude cartoon image.
“That is not amusing,” I said.
From the chuckles filling my head, I understood that he saw the situation from his own perspective.
“I am not accustomed to being a figure of fun,” I said.
The furry thing on the table chose that moment to let me know that, along with autonomic functions, it had acquired a particularly grating laugh.
“Now whose expectations require adjustment?” it said.
Sweet Trap
“Expensive fruit may grow on trees,” I said, “but not the funds needed to purchase it in seemingly limitless quantities.”
I gestured at my befurred assistant, formerly an integrator, but now transformed into a creature that combined the attributes of ape and cat. I had lately learned that it was a beast known as a grinnet, and that back in the remote ages when sympathetic association last ruled the cosmos, its kind had been employed as familiars by practitioners of magic.
My remark did not cause it to pause in the act of reaching for its third karba fruit of the morning. Its small, handlike paws deftly peeled the purple rind and its sharp incisors dug into the golden pulp. Juice dripped from its whiskers as it chewed happily.
“Nothing is more important,” said the voice of my other self, speaking within the confines of our shared consciousness, “than that I encompass as much as possible of the almost forgotten lore of magic, before it regains its ascendancy over rationalism.” He showed me a mental image of several thaumaturges scattered across the face of Old Earth, clad in figured garments, swotting away at musty tomes or chanting over bubbling alembics. “When the change finally comes, those who have prepared will command power.”
“That will not be a problem for those who have neglected to earn their livings,” I answered, “for they will have long since starved to death in the gutters of Olkney.”
The dispute had arisen because Osk Rievor, as my intuitive inner self now preferred to be called, had objected to my accepting a discrimination that was likely to take us offworld. A voyage would interrupt what had become his constant occupation: ransacking every public connaissarium, as well as chasing down private vendors, for books and objects of sympathetic association. The shelf of volumes that we had acquired from Bristal Baxandall was now augmented by stacks and cartons of new acquisitions. Most of them were not worth the exorbitant sums we had paid for them, being bastardized remembrances b
ased on authentic works long since lost in antiquity. But Rievor insisted that his insight allowed him to sift the few flecks of true gold from so much dross.
“I do not disagree,” I told him, “but unless you have come across a cantrip that will cause currency to rain from the skies, I must continue to practice my profession.”
“Such an opportunity is not likely to come our way again soon,” he said. He was referring to the impending sale of an estate connaissarium somewhere to the east of Olkney. An idiosyncratic collector of ancient paraphernalia had died, leaving the results of his life’s work in the hands of an heir who regarded the collection as mere clutter. Rumors had it that an authentic copy of Vollone’s Guide to the Eighth Plane and a summoning ring that dated from the Eighteenth Aeon would be offered.
“More important,” he said, “the auction will draw into one room all the serious practitioners. We will get a good look at the range of potential allies and opponents.”
“And how will we separate them from the flocks of loons and noddies that will also inevitably attend?” I said.
“I will know them.”
“And they will know us,” I pointed out. “Is it wise to declare ourselves contenders this early in the game?”
I felt him shrug within the common space of our joint consciousness. “It must happen sometime. Besides, I don’t doubt we have already been spotted.”
I sighed. I had not planned to spend my maturity and declining years battling for supremacy amid a contentious pack of spellcasters and wondermongers. But I declared the argument to be moot in the face of fiscal reality, saying, “We have not undertaken a fee-paying discrimination in weeks. Yet we have been spending heavily on your books and oddments. The Choweri case is the only assignment we have. We must pursue it.”
When he still grumbled, I offered a compromise. “We will send our assistant, perched on the shoulder of some hireling. It can observe and record the proceedings, and you will be able to assess the competition without their being able to take your measure. Plus we will know who acquires the Vollone and the ring, and can plan accordingly when we return from offworld.”
9 Tales of Henghis Hapthorn Page 18
